Trigger Warning
A high fever in bed,
love goes a little bit mad.
A thoroughbred with its mane on fire,
it’s trampling the last of the roses.
Love is a tsunami of emotion.
A time-bomb on the village common.
A shouting match at the devil’s picnic.
Love gets more ludicrous than that,
like musical snowfall or bats in your hair.
Like assassins. Like Mozart’s requiem.
Love it to death, it’s often been said.
Which seems rather extreme,
though often thought a necessity,
love requiring graces and airs
and not the threat of violence,
every loving kiss held to the throat
like a rusting jackknife.
Love is a sailor’s knot of ampersands.
A question mark without a question.
A bloodied footprint in a frosty field.
It sees without eyes and feels without fingers.
A hotbed of misperceptions,
every time you fall in love an angel dies.
Earthquakes increase in their intensity.
A moth takes on an impossible task.
A sensual swarm of multiple experiences,
love is a rat in the governor’s kitchen.
It’s the ghost that wakes you in the night.
Think of it as a rowboat at the head of the falls.
Think of a church bell brokering summer.